A Tale of Two Commissars (Warhammer 40k)
by TiredEagleofManwe
Summary: One-shot story of two Imperial Commissars - one old and wounded yet still loyal to the God-Emperor; the other young and strong yet fallen into Chaos. This is their final confrontation.


A/N: This is my first published fanfic; constructive criticism welcomed. Recently updated and edited.

 **oOo  
**

"Commissar Kilmore, sir? Commissar Kilmore, sir?"

Commissar Adrian Kilmore stirred painfully and tried to open his eyes, his mind struggling up from the pain-numbing, near-oblivion of semi-unconsciousness he had fallen into when the roof had collapsed. The voice that was calling him seemed muted and distant, but the hand that was shaking his shoulder was very immediate and real.

Fear flooded through him; his eyelids were sealed shut by some crusted substance that he swiftly deduced was dried blood, as was his nose. His mouth was also full of it. He wanted to clear his vision but his left hand was pinned beneath his chest along with the power sword he had been wielding (fortunately lying flat); his right hand was clenched in a death-grip about something he feared to let go of – his trusty bolt-pistol, the only thing he knew he could rely upon when everything else failed. Pain was radiating throughout his body from his back and ribs and his internal organs felt all strange and out of place. There was a wicked gash on his forehead were his head had struck the floor and the now-dried and crusted blood that had flowed from it was the cause of his blindness.

"Emperor-damned cultist scum…traitors..." he gasped raggedly as the shaking continued; his lungs were aflame, his voice thick with clotted blood.

"Try to take me and I'll send you straight to the Judgment of the Throne –" he began to raise his weapon but a large callused hand seized his wrist and gently forced it to the ground.

"Commissar Kilmore, sir, it's me, Lieutenant Thompson. You've got blood all over your face, sir, and some big frakking timbers across your back; I'm going to get you free and I don't need you shooting off bolters – you'll attract the cultists for real."

"Thompson?" Kilmore growled, his addled mind trying to attach a face and a function to the name but coming up blank. Something heavy was indeed resting upon him, pinning him to the grimy, debris-covered, hardwood floor.

"Damn, I can't see; I can barley breathe…"

"I need you to let go of your bolter, sir; please, we must do this as quietly as possible…"

"No!" Kilmore cried, the thought of being disarmed while in such a helpless state almost as a terrifying as facing down a swarm of Tyranids. "Just free me, Thompson; I'll not fire, you have my word." After a moment's hesitation the hand let go of his wrist and Kilmore pulled the gun close to him, vowing silently that it would not leave his side until he was dead.

"Thompson...do you have any water?"

In reply the Lieutenant unhooked his canteen from his belt and uncapped it. Shifting aside his lasrifle and gently cupping Kilmore's chin he helped angle the man's head so the commissar could drink as safely as possible without the water further choking him. The canteen was less than half-full, but Thompson allowed Kilmore to take five long swallows before withdrawing it. The water was lukewarm but refreshing and Kilmore sighed in content as the precious fluid soothed his parched throat, though it felt oddly strange and heavy in his stomach.

"Ah, thank you...I do not know when I last drank; I've been so...weary."

The commissar touched his right ear, feeling for the comm-bead that was filling his swimming head with garbled sounds and unintelligible nonsense. He removed it, and rested his head once more against the ground. He wanted to ask Thompson more questions, such as why he had come back for him, why he had come alone, and the status and position of the rest of the company. But he was tired; he wanted to go back to sleep. Darkness rushed up to meet him and he sank gratefully back into its black waves, yet the merciful oblivion of full unconsciousness did not claim him. Then he remembered Kirill...

"Thompson, be on your guard; Commissar Kirill is still at large...he escaped when the roof fell, before I could shoot him; I do not know where he is..."

"Yes, sir...Commissar," answered Thompson dutifully. In truth he had already swept the building and knew it to be empty. No cultists were lying in wait here; they were all slowly converging on the city's capital where those Imperial Guardsmen, PDF detachments and civilian loyalists who were still holding together under the leadership of Commissar Mason and Colonial Hesse had hunkered down in some fancy courts building and were preparing for a last stand. Thompson's company had been trying and failing to break through the mobs of cultists and in order to reinforce them but after suffering too many losses and with the bulk of their leadership compromised, dead or missing they had pulled back while the mobile artillery and the Leman Russ tanks opened up in a vengeful bombardment to cover their retreat. Thompson had gotten separated from his group after being attacked by a band of traitor Guardsmen and had discovered Kilmore quite by accident while looking for a place to take cover. It was the last thing he had expected, since the commissar had been missing for a full day and a half and had been presumed dead.

"All right now, frak, let me see how to go about this…" Thompson murmured to himself, rising from Kilmore's side, his boots causing the floorboards to creak and glass shards to crack as he paced about his fallen commissar, appraising the situation.

The commissar was the only man in the room still alive; the bodies of seven other men, including Commander Becker, two of his officers and the chief vox-operator kept Kilmore's immediate company, killed not by collapsed ceiling support beams and roofing but bloodied and mangled by the explosive force of bolters that could have only come from one source. The stink of their Chaos-rotting flesh was almost unbearable.

As Thompson stared down at the trapped senior commissar, an elderly yet war-proven veteran of countless Imperium battles, now covered in blood and clutching his bolt-pistol as if it were a holy talisman, with one great beam lying almost directly across his upper back and another resting slanted across his right leg, buttocks and lower back, he felt misgiving fill him. He was a practical, straight-forward man by nature, a trait that had served him well during his twelve-year service in the Imperial Guard, and now he could not help but evaluate the current problem - weigh the odds – and for the commissar, the odds were not good.

What point was there in freeing Kilmore? The commissar's spine was probably snapped and he likely had grievous internal injuries. Thompson could not help him; he would just be stuck hauling the grievously wounded commissar along and that would only complicate things, considering that he was only trying to lay low and avoid getting torn to pieces by Chaos-freaks. The best thing to do would be to give the old man the Emperor's Mercy and pray that his company would redeploy and press onward to the capital, securing his location and rescuing him along the way.

Even as he looked down at the trapped commissar, Thompson could not be certain if Kilmore himself was still un-tainted, despite the bloody, grisly evidence all around that told anyone with eyes the man had been in the middle of purging the corrupted staff members when the roof gave in. Still, only the Emperor knew how long he had been lying there amid all this festering corruption; Chaos had many ways of working into the mind and soul of a man. Kilmore himself had once told them so.

"Commissar, sir…"

The man pinned to the floor twitched and and raised his head, forcing himself back into reality.

"What..? what is it...?"

"I don't think you'll survive this, sir. Even if I get these beams of you I don't know how I'm going to get you out of here without making things worse; your back is probably broken and I have no equipment to…"

 _"Thompson_ …" Kilmore rasped, his voice thick and pain-filled. The commissar was looking directly at him now, having rubbed away enough of the blood with his right coat sleeve to see by. His faded blue eyes were imploring, almost beseeching. "I know I am dying...but that does not matter. Commissar Kirill must suffer the Emperor's Judgment before my end...he has betrayed us, the Guard...betrayed the Imperium...I must finish what I started..."

Kilmore suddenly began to cough violently, though it sounded more like he was choking. "By the Throne, Thompson, either shoot me now or else haul these Emperor-damned beams off me! I am…in agony…"

"Indeed? The pain you feel in your body will pale to the agony of your mind and soul when the full extent of your failure and the failure of your false Emperor is laid bare before you, Adrian," said a new voice – a young, strong voice – yet deadly and hate-filled. Thompson spun and saw junior Commissar Kirill standing in the doorway to Kilmore's left, his own bolt-pistol leveled directly at him. "One move, Guardsmen, just one, and I will plaster your worthless brains all over these equally worthless walls. Did you miss me, Adrian?"

"Ah Kirill, you've returned…and spared me the trouble of hunting you down…" Kilmore replied, chuckling humorlessly. "My thanks…now, Thompson! attack! _Shoot_ the heretical bastard!"

"Lieutenant Thompson is in no position to be your attack dog, Adrian." Kirill chided mockingly. "Your slave-driving days are over. Thompson has two choices now: he can disavow the Corpse Emperor and join our ranks or he can die – pointlessly, ingloriously – like so many millions of his cannon-fodder comrades on countless worlds in service to a heartless Imperium that cares nothing for him." The junior commissar met Thompson's eyes; once they had been a light green, now they were void-black, with flickering red pupils. He smiled, and his teeth were like those of a dog. "It really isn't that hard, Thompson. Nor is it really that horrible. If anything, it is very… _relieving_. You do not have to die today; nor do you have to die by my hand. Simply place yourself under my command and pledge yourself to the true Gods of this world. As a show of fealty, you can take Kilmore's head off with my chainsword. The death of a hang-man is of little troubling consequence to a Guardsmen, after all. Think of it, Thompson: no more senseless struggle, no more futile campaigns, no more pointless battles, no more – "

 _"Shut up,"_ Thompson breathed. His face was white and his hands were trembling at his sides but he was glaring furiously at the junior commissar and his words were hissed through clenched teeth. "Do not mock my life, or my years of service; do not decide for me what is senseless, futile or pointless. You are a heretic and a traitor; you will die in your sins and will be forgotten by all. If you want Kilmore so badly you will have to contend with me first, warp-scum."

Kirill blinked and was for a moment at a complete loss for words. He had not expected such a retort. A deadly silence fell. Kilmore swiftly broke it.

"Hail to thee, Lieutenant Thompson; may you dwell in the Emperor's glory forever – depart in peace."

 ** _Blam!_**

Kirill's black eyes widened as Thompson's body suddenly convulsed as the bolter ripped through him upward from a sideways angle, rupturing his lungs and heart before exploding into the wall. The Guardsmen fall to his knees and then onto his face, dead before his body fully finished hitting the floor. Unable to shoot at Kirill directly because of the position he was pinned in, Kilmore had chosen a second target and had slain the faithful Guardsmen before Kirill could attack or tempt him further. Kilmore was smiling fiercely, his thin lips pulled back from his broken, blood-grimed teeth; Thompson had died in triumph, mocking the fallen commissar and, by extension, Kirill's new master. There could be no more of a fitting end to a long life dedicated to serving the Emperor. It was Kilmore's duty to see that his Guardsmen retained their faith and hope and did not shrink from their duties in the face of corruption or heresy. Now the loyal Thompson would remain eternally faithful and victorious. Kilmore had no regrets, though he now knew that he had condemned himself to much suffering as well as an inglorious death. Yet that mattered not – a victory had been won and there was nothing Kirill could do to alter it.

"The brave men of the Imperial Guard might truly be cannon-fodder in your eyes, and in the eyes of incompetent generals, Kirill," Kilmore hissed. "But they are not so to _me_ ; _my_ men are not toys for you and your vile Gods to sport with…they are the loyal men and women who swore to resist and eradicate you and your corruption wherever they encounter it – or else die trying. You will not have the satisfaction of corrupting a single one for your treacherous fold…No-one gets to kill my men, except me."

Kirill sneered. "What is the life of one lowly Guardsmen to me _or_ to you? You are the one I've come for, Adrian. That was a lucky hit from the artillery, wasn't it? I don't think the battery crews were even trying to hit the place, especially if they knew their beloved commissar was within cleaning house…or _would_ they?" Kirill gave a short, mirthless laugh. "This pathetic city has been lost and the Imperial Guard – _your_ men, specifically – are retreating, though _fleeing_ would be a better word. _My_ men hold Vorr II now. Mason and Hesse will be defeated; the assault is even now just beginning. But I am not selfish; my 'fold' could always use new recruits. I am willing to extend my offer, Adrian; as I told Thompson, it is not nearly as horrible as one might think."

There was another silence. Kirill waited expectantly. The Emperor had abandoned Kilmore and he was certain the senior commissar was considering his options carefully. The only sound in the room was Kilmore's pained breathing. Yet the trapped man's silence did not stem from consideration. Pain and rage had temporarily rendered him incapable of words.

"I think I'll pass, traitor," Kilmore snarled suddenly, his voice raised as high as he could force it. "I have fought too long against the agents of Chaos to be enticed by anything you have to offer; too many of my men have died throughout the decades by my hand when they faltered or became corrupted…to surrender to it now, after so much suffering and butchery…it would be…no, Kirill; I am an old man, and a tired one at that...I care not for youth, pleasure or power; only in the fulfillment of my duties to the Emperor am I content…and I _have_ fulfilled them, to the best of my abilities…so come, traitor, if you dare, and have your way with me; but _do not tempt me_ – I am…beyond that."

Kirill was silent for a long moment. Kilmore was unable to see his face, but if he had, he would have seen the junior commissar's countenance briefly contort in pain, as if in a flickering instant he was made consciously aware of how just far he had fallen, of what he had given himself over to, and what he had lost. Then the turmoil passed, the black eyes narrowed in scorn and the dog-like teeth were bared again in a bitter, knowing smile.

"That was your last bolter round, wasn't it, Adrian?"

Kilmore did not answer. He began to thrash and writhe beneath the beams, his debris-covered black-clad body convulsing as he vainly fought to free himself.

"Was it meant for me? Or were you saving it for yourself?"

Now training his gun on his former senior officer, Kirill stepped fully into the room, contemptuously kicking aside splintered beams and pieces of roofing. Indifferent to the rotting bodies of his corrupted comrades he made his way slowly to Kilmore's right were he could be clearly seen and the trapped commissar's gun would have a near point-blank shot. Weakened anew by his frenzied efforts, Kilmore ceased his struggling and laid his lined and sunken cheek against the floor; blood was leaking out of the corners of his mouth and his breathing was wet and shallow. Only his blue eyes were alive with defiance and loathing as Kirill stepped into his view and crouched down next to him, just out of striking distance. Kilmore still grasped his now-empty bolt-pistol, but he no longer had the strength to lift it.

"Would you like me to give you the Emperor's Mercy, Adrian?" Kirill asked softly, contemptuously, a savage leer twisting his normally handsome face into a mockery of the man he'd once been. "Beg it of me, Adrian; _beg_ it of me and I will give it to you, here and now, if you so desire."

The elderly commissar lifted his head slightly and spat a mouthful of blood at Kirill's face. He was too far for it to strike, but the point was made. The mocking leer vanished and in a sudden spasm of rage Kirill sized Kilmore by his graying yet plentiful head of once-blond hair. He jerked the old man's head up and back as far as it would go without snapping it and leaned in close, pinning Kilmore's free hand and bolter to the floor with his knee.

"I am going to hurt you, Adrian," Kirill snarled. "And I am going to _enjoy_ it. I offered you two ways out of your self-inflicted predicament and you repay me with sickening pious statements and insults. Very well; let's see if your God-Corpse truly cares for His devoted, incorruptible servants; let's see if Adrian Kilmore is as stalwart and unwavering in his faith as he says…"

Kirill holstered his bolt-pistol and held his free hand up before Kilmore's face. It was ungloved and the man's nails, once kept clean and trim, were now long and jagged, curving like the talons of an eagle. With a half-mad snarl Kirill jabbed his thumb-claw into Kilmore's right eye, twisting and gouging with it, being careful not to dig in too deeply. Kilmore screamed in utter agony and thrashed uselessly against the beams, struggling to lift his body the fraction required to free his pinned left hand which still clasped his power sword. But the thick beams remained immovable.

"That's it, old man – _scream_!" Kirill cried, almost screaming himself, his eyes huge and black and flickering with the hateful warp-light of the Ruinous Powers. "Scream loud enough for Him to hear you – scream to your False Emperor!"

Kilmore screamed. And screamed. But he did not break, nor did he plea for any kind of mercy, though Kirill waited long for the words.

Finally he withdrew his thumb from Kilmore's eye, now ruined and pulped in a bloody gaping eye-socket. But the corrupted commissar wasn't satisfied; hatred and the insatiable desire to kill, torment, destroy and commit other, even more loathsome acts filled him. Slamming Kilmore's head against the floor he stood upright and seized the heavy beam lying across the commissar's back. Dark energy surged through him and with a savage cry he lifted it with ease and heaved it aside. Grasping the second he raised it, and as Kilmore began to drag himself away, pulling his power sword from beneath him as he did so, Kirill stood the beam upright, re-angled it, and then let it fall again, right across Kilmore's lower legs, even as Adrian rolled himself onto his back.

There was an audible crunching sound. The elderly commissar gave another agonized scream, now pinned in place once more. "I'm not finished yet!" Kirill spat. "Where's your Emperor now? Where is the Guard; your oh-so-loyal men? Who is going to save you, Kilmore? _Who?!_ Answer me that!"

Kilmore's power sword suddenly flashed to life in the grim darkness of the wrecked, corpse-strewn room. Through the gaping holes in the ceiling a thick blanket of heavy storm clouds rolled across the sky, obscuring the oncoming dusk. The distant rumble of battery and tank fire could still be heard, yet with each bombardment it was growing more and more distant as Kilmore's surviving Guardsmen retreated from the city after failing to break through the waves of civilian cultists who had finally halted their advances.

"Can you hear it? They are leaving you behind, Kilmore…leaving you behind to die in the dark – with _me_ …" Kirill smiled and drew his chainsword, lightly caressing the trigger with his finger.

With an agonizing effort Kilmore struggled to sit upright, fighting through the pain of his broken back, using the beam as leverage. His pale face was black with blood and blacker still was the empty socket where his right eye had once been. His caprice breastplate with its winged-skull motif was dented and bespattered with the blood and viscera of dead foes and the sleeves and tail-ends of his black greatcoat were torn and tattered. He'd lost his cap early on in the fight and the red sash of the Commissariat was stained and ripped. He looked helpless and defeated, but as long as he breathed Kirill knew he would fight. He held the activated power sword before him double-handed; his jaw was set and his remaining eye blinking as he tried to focus on his foe.

" _Come then_ ," Kilmore whispered quietly, his rasping voice weak but calm, resigned to what was coming. "Come and finish it, _traitor_ ; the Emperor… _protects_ …"

Kirill sneered at him, marveling at the elder man's misplaced faith. "He does _not_ protect, Adrian; He _cannot_ protect. The Imperium of Man is nothing but a organization of blind, moronic, fanatical fools who are merely using an old dying Terrain ruler as a crutch to prop them up against the dread reality that they are warring in futility against the _real_ Gods of this world, the immortal beings who possesses _real_ power and who bring _real_ meaning and change to this vast, cold universe that the Imperium struggles in vain to conquer and enlighten. It is a doomed war; a war only madmen and idiots would dare wage. I know the truth of it; I've known it for quite some time. So have many others – the citizens of this word, for example. They care not for your sacrifices or those of your men; they only know that _your_ God is powerless and that by surrendering to Chaos, to the _true_ Gods, they are free to do whatever they wish, without the fear of punishment or death. If any number of _them_ were here now instead of me they would have torn you apart already, after raping and torturing you death first…"

Kirill paused, his own breathing becoming quick and heavy, the hellish warp-light gleaming in his blackened eyes. His teeth ground together and sweat stood out on his brow. The desire to hurt, mangle, rape and kill filled him anew with such an agonizing intensity that it was almost unbearable.

"The Emperor... _protects_..."

Kirill roared aloud, his voice guttural and bestial. Hatred and madness were tearing his mind and body apart.

"Your false Emperor cannot protect you, Adrian! He never did! It was by your own strength of will that you have been kept alive – until now! You are completely forsaken – curse your dead Emperor and die yourself!"

And so saying the traitorous commissar activated his chainsword and sprang upon his trapped enemy.

 **oOo**

Kilmore could feel death clutching at him; could feel a numbing, empty coldness slowly flooding through his broken, blood-drowned body, though it could not quell the hurricane of agony that was once his right eye. Darkness was gathering at the corners of his vision and his hearing was growing dim; the Traitor was still ranting at him but the elderly commissar could hardly hear what he was now saying. All his energy and focus was on his hands, his old acing hands that held his power sword upright and steady in the Traitor's direction. His entire will was bent upon his hands and his sword, nothing else mattered, nothing but this one final duty left to preform: the execution of this Traitor that stood before him, the purging of this blasphemous blight upon the Imperial Guard that wore a commissar's uniform and had once fought with bravery beside him, the death of a man he had once considered a close comrade, maybe even a friend.

 _"…The Imperium of Man is nothing but a organization of blind, moronic, fanatical fools who are merely using an old dying Terrain ruler as a crutch –"_

There were daemons swirling lazily in the air about the Traitor, warp-spawn wispy and wraithlike, without color or shape. Kilmore did not think the Traitor knew they were there; they were invisible to him, although they were certainly having an adverse affect on his mood and behavior. Perhaps upon Kilmore's death his blood would provide them with enough energy to take on a more substantial, if not fully physical form. Unless he was hallucinating their presence? Yet the threat remained. He was angered by the thought that no matter what he or the Traitor did, he would die regardless and his body would be desecrated and his blood used in blasphemous cultist rituals to further enable the servants of the Ruinous Powers. Yet there was nothing he could do. The coldness grew, seeping deeper into him. Death was coming, yet death had always _been_ coming; all those who took up arms in the God Emperor's name and for the cause of His mighty Imperium, be they Guardsmen, Commissars or Astartes, fell under the sentence of death; some died sooner then others, some died more painfully then others. But in the end, all died. Kilmore was not afraid of death, nor of Chaos; rather, he feared cowardice and treachery, mockery and deceit: all those sins Chaos planted in the hearts of minds of man that destroyed civilizations, communities and families and broke the bonds of friendship and brotherhood.

 _"…warring in futility against the_ real _Gods of this world, the immortal beings who possesses_ real _power and who inflict_ real _meaning and change to this vast, cold universe –"_

Or to be more truthful, he had _once_ feared them.

 _"…a doomed war; a war only madmen and idiots would dare wage. I know the truth of it; I've known it for quite some time –"_

Now, with age and experience, Kilmore's fear had turned to _hatred_ : a perfect, well-aged hatred, nurtured and justified by countless struggles with the servants of Chaos in all their diabolical forms and manifestations. Now they had all come together in the form of this Traitor, this false-commissar who was going to butcher him with his chainsword at the bidding of the daemons of the Warp, the man Kilmore himself had mentored, looking forward to the day when he could declare him a full commissar.

 _"…They care not for your sacrifices or those of your men; they only know that your God is powerless and that by surrendering to Chaos, to the_ true _Gods, they are free – "_

Now, Kilmore only saw the junior commissar-turned-traitor as just another traitorous heretic, one more foe of the Imperium he had to slay. And he was tired. He was so very tired. Soon death would claim him and he would stand in glory at the Emperor's right hand with the rest of His children…but how would he be able to look upon the blessed countenance of his God's face if this Traitor remained alive to wander the worlds, despoiling, raping and slaughtering without fear of judgment?

Kilmore's spirit quailed at this thought and his grip on the power sword faltered slightly. No, if he failed to slay this Traitor here and now he would have failed the Emperor, failed the Commissariat, failed the Imperial Guard itself. He would not permit it. Regardless of whatever happened to himself or his body, this Traitor must die. It was his duty. Only then would he be able to rest at last in perfect peace. Perfect hatred had sustained him thus far; now, if he could hold out just a brief while longer...

"The Emperor... _protects._.."

 _"…Your false Emperor cannot protect you, Adrian! He never did! It was by your own strength of will that you have been kept alive – until now! You are completely forsaken – curse your dead Emperor and die yourself!"_

…he would soon know what it would be like to experience perfect peace.

The Traitor sprang upon him, his whirring chainsword raised high, a vile snarl on his mutating, hate-filled face…

 **oOo**

The two commissars came to meet one another; one, the younger, falling upon the other, the elder, who was straining upwards to greet him. Their uniforms were almost identical, their fit and honed bodies taunt with rage, their strained faces twisted with hate and deathlust. The elder was dying, his bones crushed, his mouth and lungs dark with clotting blood. The younger had died some time ago; his body, mind and soul offered to the Gods of the Warp, to the infernal workings of the Ruinous Powers. The elder was a servant of the God-Emperor of Mankind, He who sat upon the Golden Throne on Holy Terra, the founder and sustainer of the mighty Imperium to which the elder had dedicated his life; the younger was a puppet-vassal of Chaos daemons, a lackey of the Dark Gods who hated mankind and would never cease in their eternal wars against them, each-other, and all those who dwelt in the material world. Both men were hardened killers, battle-scared veterans of countless champagnes and skirmishers. One still kept his faith, the other had fallen.

But in this last moment the two men were perfectly united together in one thought, one goal, and one mission: the death of the other.

As Kirill bore down upon the older man he suddenly cast aside his chainsword and it spun away, still whirring, into the darkening shadows of the reeking, demolished room. His body was rapidly mutating, all his fingers and toes twisting into fearsome claws, his face and jaw elongating and filling with jagged uneven fangs, his arm, leg, chest and neck muscles thickening and hardening. With an inhuman cry he swept Kilmore's sword aside, almost loosing his entire right hand in the process. Landing atop the elder commissar, he drove Kilmore back down upon the floor. His hideous jaws opened wide, wider then the jaws of any human or dog could have ever opened them and the Darkness in the back of his throat was bottomless. Kilmore's left arm was partially blocking the path to his own throat and with a merciless, unholy fury the mutated commissar seized and crushed it, shredding the heavy leather, skin, flesh and bone. Yet even as he did so Kilmore's power sword came slicing down upon his neck in a desperate downward stroke, and all the faithful commissar's remaining strength was contained within that blow. Kirill's bulging neck muscles could not withstand the powered blade and it bit deep into him, slicing clean into his spine and paralyzing him from the neck down. He collapsed fully upon Kilmore, but yet again the fell jaws opened, now stained with Kilmore's blood, the dripping fangs adorned with his torn skin and flesh. Kilmore did not have the strength to withdraw the blade and strike the abomination a second time. As the Traitor's jaws closed upon his throat, the loyal commissar, in a final spasm of rage, forced the blade down a few precious inches deeper, severing through Kirill's spine completely even as the distended fangs buried themselves into his own neck.

 _"The Emperor protects!"_ Kilmore cried, blood bursting from his mouth and ravaged throat. Kirill gave a final ugly, snarl-scream of defeat before his jaws went slack and his misshapen head lolled lifelessly upon Kilmore's breast before sliding down to one side, leaving behind a trailing smear of saliva and bloody gore.

Kilmore's hand slid from his sword-hilt and dropped to the floor; his mouth and nose filled with fresh blood and he began to choke and convulse, drowning in his own life-giving fluids as they flowed from him and spread out across the floor in a widening crimson pool. The world was completely silent; the daemons had vanished. The commissar was beyond pain, beyond hope and beyond fear; his long struggle was over and the time to rest had arrived at last. He had fulfilled his last duty: the Traitor was dead, one less foe of the Emperor to trouble His children in the future. Kilmore would have smiled in satisfaction if he had been capable of it, but now he was no longer capable of doing anything.

As life finally left him the last sensation his body felt was that of the cold fat drops of rain that began to fall through the holes in the roof; the heavens of Vorr II were weeping over the dead form of Commissar Adrian Kilmore, but he would have bade them to stop, if he could; for now, taking his place by the Emperor's right hand, he understood finally what true peace was really like.

~ end ~


End file.
